


Because Contrary to Popular Belief Bond is Human

by bluerosele



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is afraid of hospitals, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Terrible Medical Attempts, stop dying Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3973786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosele/pseuds/bluerosele





	Because Contrary to Popular Belief Bond is Human

Bond is human. 

This isn’t a shared theory. Anyones or nones that he can find because sometimes Q just needs to talk about it all, don’t agree. More than don’t agree, there’s something in their face that says Q doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t understand, but will, and they will pity it when he does.

Q dislikes that face and never plans on having it. Because what they doubt he knows, he does. More so with what he sees, not little. 

Bond breached the emendation of conditioning which had, for lack of a better description, an agent be possessed. Not by much, but it was his own if anything. If he hadn’t, Bond would be bleeding on an infirmary bed, or street, not Q’s couch. 

“Oh, Bond, what have you done to yourself this time?” His voice doesn’t crack. Some part of him believes he still has control over this situation. Perhaps that part had been preparing. If only he’d known. It’d have been nice to know. Q gets closer and doesn’t pass out.

Bond attempts to answer, but his body won’t let him. The noises he makes are the same Q’s only heard over the com, and the same he was hoping he’d never see to hear. 

He wonders if this mysterious preservation piece is some chip implanted into him by MI6, so when he was exposed to field-like factors he’d continue to function without shutting down. What was an agency to have if it’s computer went offline every time it was exposed to the actual espionage-ing of espionage? Either that or the agents are beginning to rub off on him. They leave impressions. He hopes it’s the former. 

“That was meant to be rhetorical,” Q sighs because he can never admit when he was wrong. He bends down without breathing too deeply. “I know you’ll find this difficult but try to refrain yourself from talking. It doesn’t seem to be helping. Not that it ever really does.”

Bond smiles and Q’s passed, though he guessed he had when he hand’t run screaming. The origin of the blood that wouldn’t stop coming is on his left side, a not too deep cut across the hip. It’ll need stitches though. 

The needle and thread are in the open mirror in his bathroom, next to the toothpaste and face cream. On occasion, Q needs a reminder of what he’s gotten himself into. Spy supplies dispersed around his life help him achieve some sort of balance. 

The exploding pen is on his desk. He’ll never tell Bond. 

As he cleans the wound, he lets the thread soak and heats the needle. He offers the whisky of the same bottle to Bond first, who declines and faces forward. Phlegmatic 007 takes over and Q can only begin. 

Q starts to take his chip theory seriously. He does this much better than he should. Not great, but not horrible either. It doesn’t seem to make it worse at least. 

Bond is back when he’s done. He seems better. Tired, beat up, rasping, but better. He won’t be going anywhere tonight.

Q would’ve offered a more preferable sleeping arrangement but Bond’s head is tilting forwards and by the time Q returns with a duvet he’s curled in on himself, making home in his own blood.

Q wants to do something more. Anything. Touch his shoulder, or smooth out his hair, or whatever it is others need at times like this. Q doesn’t know what it is, but it must be something. He felt that there was. But he can’t give anything that he doesn’t know. He’s never needed it. He’d accept whatever it was if he did, but nothing had happened where he’d need it yet. He was inexperienced, but that’s why he was here. To change that.

All he can do now is put the duvet over Bond and leave, hoping it is, but knowing it isn’t, enough. 

Halfway to his room he hears Bond shift and mumble, “Thank you, Q.” 

It’s so quiet Q isn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it. Would’ve made more sense if he’d imagined it. But nothing else sounds like Bond’s voice so he turns. Bond’s enwrapped himself in the duvet, but had returned to his folded over stance. It seems defensive. 

Q lowers the lights to a dim glow and unsure of proper spy healing etiquette mutters a, “You’re welcome.” back and leaves his door cracked. 

He doesn’t bother changing into his pajamas and lie on top of his covers. Unable to sleep he stares at his wall for an uncertain amount of time, until his body beats his mind and shuts him down. He thinks he hears Bond again as he falls under, but doubts it. The voice is thanking him and that doesn’t happen. Not twice. 

The next morning Bond is gone. Q decides it’s best. Besides, Earl Grey has replaced him, waiting on the coffee table. After making toast, Q has his tea while attempting to get the blood out of the couch.


End file.
